


Footjobs Are For The Best

by sinenomine



Series: Worse.Better.Best [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Foot Jobs, Insecurity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multiple-Ejaculatory Orgasms in a Male, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinenomine/pseuds/sinenomine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives John a footjob. This makes him too late to catch up to a group of criminals, but he doesn’t end up minding overmuch. (Fluffy AU of this fic series.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footjobs Are For The Best

**Author's Note:**

> When typing up everything in [It Gets Worse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1130572) and [But Then Better](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1130922) got to be a bit too much for me, I switched over to a fluffy, gang-rape-free AU wherein Sherlock and John just have sweet sex and get to have their happily-ever-after without all the trauma they had to go through first in the It Gets Worse series. This is that AU, not a continuation of the other stories, but an alternate path of events.

“I’m beginning to wonder,” John says when Sherlock enters the room, “if you don’t get off by working me up and leaving me dry.”

This causes offense, as he had known it would. He tries to explain, he probably goes a bit overboard with the reassurances, but it works, he supposes, because Sherlock dumps a foot in John’s lap. Or maybe it doesn’t work, because Sherlock starts punctuating the points of his response by pressing into him with that foot. He’s getting awfully close with it, and John has not signed up to be kicked in the dick by anyone. If it happens, there is going to be retaliatory use of knees. He can excuse it as reflex.

But no, it really is just emphasis, probably. Emphasis and perhaps some insecurity. Still, he runs a hand along the top of it when he responds, just so he has some defence if his words prompt a ball-crushing frenzy.

They don’t. There’s acknowledgement of his point and the effective ending of the conversation with Sherlock turning back to his laptop. The foot remains on his lap and his hand stays on the foot, tracing lightly along the dorsal muscles and bones. The foot starts to move in response to his touch, following the motions of his hands, toes spreading and curling, then digging into his thigh and relaxing, then doing it again. The movement is almost hypnotic. 

Then there’s a twitch, and a shift, and it’s no longer his thigh the toes are rhythmically pressing into. 

He forces himself to stop. Sherlock looks up from his laptop and digs his toes in again, this time in protest.

John grunts at the contact, and Sherlock must hear something specific in it because there is a momentary flash of absolute shock across his features.

Sherlock curls his toes again.

The sound John makes at that is closer to a groan. He pushes Sherlock’s foot away because he can’t let Sherlock do this to him again, not so soon after having just done so.

“You didn’t masturbate,” Sherlock says slowly. “Why not?”

He had, actually. Or he had tried. But the visions of Sherlock writing for him were overlaid with Sherlock’s wide eyes and his “I can’t.” Annoyance had tempered his libido and only grown with the surety that Sherlock was in the shower doing exactly the same thing because he didn’t want John to actually touch him. It hadn’t been satisfying and he’d been too annoyed to think of anything else.

He refrains from answering the question or commenting on exactly how short Sherlock’s shower was.

“It’s not important.”

“Do you like feet?”

No, this is the contact, the pressure, not the appendage.

Sherlock must read the answer in his face. “Not particularly then.” He stares at John for a moment, then presses his foot back, firmly, into his lap.

“It wouldn’t count,” he says, “as sex, for me.” And then, with a slight frown and his toe running pointedly along the bulge in John’s trousers, he adds, “take it out.”

John reaches down, with no surety that Sherlock is going to do anything aside from stare at him once he has, and unzips. It seems almost tawdry, like the awkwardness of adolescence. An ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours’ with the added surety that there will be no reciprocation.

He stops. It’s not that he doesn’t want this – he definitely wants Sherlock to want him like this – but he can’t be sure this isn’t some sort of test, and if it isn’t, he really can’t be sure he’s going to like whatever Sherlock is intending.

He doesn’t get much more of a chance to think about it. Sherlock curls his toes – nails noticeable – under the band of his pants and pulls them down.

He’s only half-hard, and he’s still sitting so it’s not as though his clothes can be pulled down very far, but it’s not exactly concealing either.

The noise Sherlock makes in response to what he can see is decidedly approving. John automatically shifts to lower the fabric further.

Sherlock uncrosses his other leg, reaching that foot out to touch him. Actual skin-to-skin contact is amazing. It has been far too long.

Both feet twist, and suddenly they’re around him, pulling him out and moving along him.

It’s unskilled, clumsy, with at times too much pressure and at times too little.

“This is...” he doesn’t know what to say.

“Do you want me to stop?” John thinks there’s something like a hint of panic in Sherlock’s voice, but no, he doesn’t.

John shakes his head. “It’s strange.”

“A good strange,” not quite a question, but said without surety.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly before thinking.

The feet stop moving on him and he realises that he’s probably just said something stupid. Now Sherlock will take offense and run off. He’ll be left hard – again – and this time it **is** worse.

His gasp when the feet start moving again is mostly surprise. Sherlock links his toes together, then presses the soles of his feet tight around John, moving them with an uneven rhythm from his ankles.

“This position is terrible,” Sherlock says. “Turn to face me.”

John moves before he can think. He turns and stretches one leg out along the back of the cushions, toes pressed under Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock shifts his leg to pin John’s down. He has to take his foot off of John to do so, but it’s no loss. The pressure he exerts with his remaining foot is more controlled, more pleasant.

Sherlock presses the length of his foot against the underside of John’s cock. For the first time, John starts to believe that what they’re doing here may actually end very nicely. 

John’s hips jerk as Sherlock moves his foot up and down. He’s too hard now to bother with embarrassment, and Sherlock seems to be enjoying himself, so there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing.

Still, he’s never considered feet in any way even verging on the sexual, and now that he’s bucking his hips with one as the only point of contact he feels as though there’s been some sort of unasked for shift in his life. It’s not just the pressure and contact he’s noticing now. It’s the difference in textures between the arch and the pad of the sole. It’s the smooth callus on the big toe and how it creates its own separate sensation. It’s the way the toes can grip and undulate in a manner so similar, yet so very, very different from fingers.

It’s not that he’s going to develop an obsession, but the appreciation is unexpected.

Sherlock has to move his whole foot when he attempts to rub circles on the tip of John’s cock with his toe. There’s something endearing about it. Then the other foot joins back in, and that is so much better than it was. John is clamped between Sherlock’s arches with the pressure and position for a steady slide.

He is _getting somewhere_ when he hears the chime of Sherlock’s phone. He winces and he tries to come, because he knows he has less than a second before Sherlock reaches for his mobile and decides that this isn’t half as exciting as whatever he’s being called off to solve. He tries, but he can’t. He’s not nearly that close.

And then the phone keeps ringing and the feet keep working on him. He looks up to see Sherlock staring at him intently, leaning toward the sound but not even reaching out for it. Sherlock speeds up his strokes.

That is heady. It’s more than he thought he could expect. He hadn’t really doubted that Sherlock was interested in getting him off, but he also hadn’t let himself believe that Sherlock would give it priority. 

It’s not simply the sensation of Sherlock’s feet on him that drives him to the edge of orgasm. It’s Sherlock touching him with an expression of intensity and fascination while ignoring what he surely hopes is a summons to a crime scene. 

John has never wanted to be more important than murder – even potential murder – but now that he is, it feels marvelous.

He wants to see how long Sherlock will go without answering the phone. He wants to prolong the sensation, so he does. He takes his time, and Sherlock gets more creative, adding small swivels to his strokes and then a rhythmical variance of pressure. It’s good, and being the focus of that concentration is great.

He wants to hang on the edge of orgasm forever, but he can’t. He gives a quick warning and releases against Sherlock’s toes. Sherlock doesn’t stop moving against him until he’s emptied and softening.

Sherlock stares at the mess on his feet with a look John can’t interpret.

“Give me a tissue,” he says, rubbing his toes together, spreading the come over his skin.

John takes a moment to orient himself. He has to stretch, but he can reach the box without getting up. He pulls it toward him and takes what he needs to clean off Sherlock and himself. Sherlock watches him as he works. 

“That was fine then.” It’s neither a statement nor a question.

“Wonderful.” John hesitates, unsure of where this is going to go. “I’m more than willing to reciprocate if you—”

“No need,” Sherlock cuts him off, leaping to his feet and taking two long strides to pick up his mobile. He glances at the screen, sends off some quick reply, then turns back to John.

“I’m,” there’s the barest hint of hesitation, “happy that you’re satisfied.”

John doesn’t have the chance to wonder further if everything really is as right as he’d like it to be. Sherlock bounds over to him and leans down, grabbing John’s chin to tilt his head up for a kiss that clearly conveys his happiness.

“I wanted to do that with you – not that exactly but you understand – but you can’t judge me by it.”

John furrows his brow, and Sherlock continues, “I wasn’t having sex. When I do I’ll be better. I promise.”

John looks up at him. He can’t see any trace of nervousness or insecurity but...

“Well, if I were to count it as sex for me, it would count as good sex.”

There’s a flash of a grin, and an open-mouthed kiss that doesn’t linger.

“Now hurry up,” Sherlock says. “There’s been a double homicide.”

* * *

He does not smile stupidly at any point during the ride over. In practice, this means that he maintains a brilliant poker-face than in its bland expressionlessness reveals as much as it conceals.

John sometimes looks over and smiles dopily at him. He finds this perfectly acceptable, as John’s face is suited to such expressions.

He doesn’t do anything as pointless as wait for John to pay the cab fare, but he doesn’t move on to the scene as quickly as he could. The police, of course, notice nothing. 

He doesn’t give John a chance to put on the decontamination suit, so he doesn’t have to wait for him to get out of it.

Having John by his side does slow him down. By the time they’ve gone from the scene to the killer’s house to a pub that looks most likely to be frequented by the crime ring, they find while they’ve followed the trail true they’re too late to actually catch up with the group. Sherlock ends up having to follow paper trails and the barman’s descriptions. He and John track down a couple of the criminals on their own, but it’s not much trouble or excitement, and the police manage to track down the rest of the men with only the barest resistance.

Sherlock is more than a little disappointed by the whole affair, but before he can really start sulking he’s called in for another, more exciting, case.

* * *

It’s in the post-case euphoria that he decides he’s ready. His mood is buoyed by the brilliance he’s just had a chance to display and the fun he’s had in doing so. He’s aware, however, that his sense of wellbeing will be fleeting.

He wants to do this, and he wants to do it now, while he knows he’s brilliant, and John knows he’s brilliant, and he can continue to be brilliant. 

He’s come to not only know but accept that John is probably going to stay with him, even if his performance isn’t spectacular. That’s part of the reason he wants to do this with John. He will be good, of course, because he’s brilliant, but if he weren’t, John would be perfectly willing to repeat the experience until he improved. 

He makes allowance for necessity. Bathing and rest. He exercises remarkable restraint, waiting until the next morning to propose it over breakfast. 

He makes the breakfast, accepts John’s praise with grace, and eats with a look of deep concentration while he stares at the table.

John misses the obvious invitation to inquire about his thought process.

That’s fine. He can take the initiative. 

“I was thinking that we should use the bed first, and if that goes well we can try over the table next.” 

It takes John a second. He coughs scrambled eggs down his chin. 

Sherlock makes no attempt to hide his amusement. 

“I think I’d like that,” John says, voice slightly muffled by the napkin held up to his face.

“I know.” Sherlock pushes his plate aside and leans across the table to bring their mouths together. 

John throws the napkin on the table, but before he can bring his hands up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, Sherlock pulls back, grabs his wrist, and pulls him out of the kitchen. 

The stumble to the bedroom takes moments, but it’s still far too long. He has a plan, and it involves clothes on his bedroom floor, not the kitchen and not the hallway. So he’s not going to stop for kissing, as much as he enjoys it, because this time, when he starts, he is not going to let himself stop. 

He doesn’t stop at pulling John into his room, but farther, fully clothed, on to his bed. He climbs over him, a likely not entirely comfortable weight, then begins kissing him in earnest, trying to convey a series of wordless promises with his lips and tongue.

When John twists to turn them on their sides he permits that, and when John’s hands move, one against his abdomen and one resting but not pulling at the top of his trousers, he moves his own to the button there, undoing it in invitation. 

John’s hand moves down, under his pants and over the flesh of his hip. Sherlock works to copy the action and John responds by twisting further, pressing Sherlock back against the bed as he lowers his clothes.

The sensation of sheets against his bare skin is electrifying. It’s not the fabric itself that excites him, but the knowledge that they are sheets, and that it is John pressing him into them, and that he is going to feel much more of them and it is going to be very nice.

John breaks the kiss and pulls back to watch as he draws the cloth down over Sherlock’s hardening flesh. Pressure builds in Sherlock’s chest as he watches John’s face for a reaction, and blooms into warmth when he sees a small smile and slight widening of already dilated pupils. 

John’s eyes dart up to meet his. He wets his lips before moving his hand from fabric to flesh.

Sherlock jumps at the touch. He moves into it, hardening further. He has to close his eyes and bite at his lip to control the sensations.

John’s hand moves on him in a steady stroke. He undulates in response, pulling John’s clothes farther down and reaching out to grab what he’s only touched once before. He pulls John to full hardness, and finds it gratifying that it does not take long, then moves his hands up, sliding them under the fabric concealing John’s chest.

John is accommodating enough to let Sherlock pull the shirt off of him. Sherlock groans when, instead of replacing his hands on his prick, John starts in on the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. John simply chuckles at him in a way he can’t entirely mind and helps Sherlock kick their pants and trousers off. Sherlock traces his fingers over every part of him that he can reach, pausing only to let John pull his arms out of his sleeves and push the shirt off the bed. Sherlock finds himself explored as much as he is exploring; John’s fingers trace his arms, stutter over his scars. 

He knows that he’s ready for this, and he’s as relaxed as he’s ever going to be. 

“I want you to penetrate me,” he says, as John kisses his way down his chest, “anally.”

“Are you sure?” John asks, looking up at him. “You don’t have to start with –”

“I want to,” Sherlock says, and that is that.

He pushes John aside very gently and reaches under the corner of his bed for a small jar.

“I can do this,” he says, opening the jar and dipping his fingers inside. “Lie on your back and let me.”

John does as he’s told. He lies on his back as Sherlock directs and watches Sherlock prepare himself. He watches Sherlock open and slick himself, and runs a comforting hand up and down along his thigh as he does so. He helps Sherlock straddle him, face-to-face, and holds his hands on Sherlock’s hips to help him balance as he lowers himself, slowly, on to him.

It hurts. John feels larger than he should. Larger than Sherlock had thought he would. He doesn’t mind in the least. The stretch is full, and painful, and Sherlock doesn’t begrudge a second of it. It’s good, and it’s beneficial, the discomfort pushing back the immediacy of his own pleasure, delaying orgasm despite his excitement. He gathers his bearings and moves, slowly, enjoying the expression on John’s face even more than the sensation of him inside of him.

It doesn’t work perfectly. He has to lean too far back to feel the building pressure the way he wants it, and the muscles in his thighs start to burn more painfully than he’d expected.

John notices though, and helps him move until he’s more comfortable. They twist and turn, and discover more about each other’s bodies, and Sherlock finds that finding a good position is enjoyable in itself.

They twist into a position that would have been uncomfortable to start with – they’re on their sides with Sherlock’s body curved inward and his leg forced down under John’s weight while John’s damaged shoulder presses into the bed – but the angle is perfect enough, and the pleasure already so built, that any consideration of moving is scarcely a possibility. He had planned for more dignity, more cataloguing of reactions to draw more pleased moans out of John. What he ends up with is a mindless inability to fully control his movements and muffled gasps. 

Sherlock comes first, almost falling off the bed when his spine straightens with orgasm. It’s sooner than he wanted, but not soon enough to disappoint. He objects with a strained repetition of, “Don’t stop!” when John takes his hands off his prick. If this is one of those times when his body will let him come again without a visible refractory period, then he wants to take advantage of it. John doesn’t question his demand, and resumes pumping with barely a falter in his rhythm.

Sherlock rolls them back over until John is under him again, and continues to ride him, ignoring the burning in his thighs. 

He can see John’s face as he comes, but even if he weren’t able to watch, he’d be able to detect the orgasm from the way John’s hips falter in their movement and the rest of his body trembles.

John lies still for a moment, breathing deep. Then he pulls Sherlock up, and pulls himself out, and moves down. He licks at Sherlock’s prick, already coated with release rubbed in by John’s continued strokes.

He wraps his lips around the head, and sucks and licks while continuing to move his hand along the shaft. The other hand finds his balls, and a finger drags along to rub at the skin behind them.

Sherlock can’t hold out against the warm wet suction. He gives no warning but the tensing of his body before his second orgasm, but he doesn’t feel particularly guilty as John kisses his way back up his body, knowing it will have produced less than his first.

“Did you come twice?” John asks before kissing him, sliding his tongue between Sherlock’s teeth. He no longer tastes like breakfast. “That is extraordinary.”

“It happens sometimes.” Sherlock opens his eyes from his post-orgasmic daze to see John’s expression. “Don’t be smug.”

“I am amazing,” John corrects him, then looks at him softly for a second and adds, “and you are brilliant. That was wonderful.”

“It was,” Sherlock concedes with a slight smile. His sense of wellbeing isn’t simply from orgasmic dopamine. Everything has gone exactly as he wanted. He was wonderful, and he was brilliant, and John is with him and going to stay with him and be happy to do so. He lets himself bask in his victory because he deserves it. Because even after it’s over, John has left a hand resting on his chest, a warm, acceptably possessive weight.

He runs a hand through John’s hair, mind alight with possibilities and the excuse of making up for lost time. 

In the warmth of the afterglow, he makes plans for what they should do next.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson never does get a clear explanation of how her tenants broke their table.


End file.
